


The Waiting Room

by Holy_Leonards



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Crack, Gen, Karma - Freeform, Murder, Rootin' Tootin' Shootin', Suicide, old west au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 05:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7253956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holy_Leonards/pseuds/Holy_Leonards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate finds himself in an old west saloon with some familiar faces (all around me).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Waiting Room

All heads turned as the heavy door creaked open. Light cut through a thick cloud of cigarette smoke, shining onto whiskey bottles. A man, Nate, jingle jangle jingled into the saloon.

“The poor bastard outside...” A filthy hand raked through greasy brown hair, a smile playing on his mouth. “The one at the end of a rope. He got a name?”

The barkeep filled a glass, holding it out for Nate. “He was a killer. If he had a name, it’s not much use to him now. Is it, drunkie?”

“Did you see it?”

“Pardon?” The barkeep asked, spreading dirty water on the counter with an old, gray rag. To call it washing would be a loose use of the word.

“Did you watch him die?”

“I don’t derive pleasure watching a life end, drunkie. I don’t have, what smoothskins would call, a taste for death.”

The newcomer looked amused. “It’s not the dying I enjoy watching. It’s the squirming, the gasping, the kicking their legs.”

The barkeep gaped at Nate. “You’re a sick pervert.”

“Take a seat, Nate,” said a mechanical man, from the other end of the room. His eyes glowed the color of marigolds.

Around the stranger, a man and a woman. He had burnt flesh, and eyes so dark they looked black. She was a petite brunette, hair clipped short. He wore a red coat, a grubby American flag tied loosely around his slim hips. She wore jeans and a faded flannel. All three, playing poker.

“Pantalons cuir.”

Nate approached, with a cocky smile. “I’m afraid you have me at an advantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“It’s no advantage, knowing you.”

Eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You really are stupid, aren’t you? You don’t remember me? The name Nick Valentine doesn’t ring any bells?”

A noseless face turned towards Nick. “It’s his hand that’s fast, not his brain.”

“That’s right.” Nate scratched his stubble, wetting his cracked lips. “I give the fastest handjobs in the West. What of it, leper?”

The rough voice came again, “The name’s John! And I wasn’t talking about your filthy talents. I meant your gun, Nate!”

“Oh, right. The shooting people. Heh.” An awkward silence filled the room.

“Cuir.”

“Physician.”

Suddenly, the clock toned.

_If your man ain't treatin' you right_  
Come on and take my hand  
When I let you go you'll cry,  
"Oh yes, he's a sixty minute man!"

 

“That’s some ring,” Nate said, mockingly.

A chair scraped across the floor. “Well, it’s my time.”

“Leper says what.”

“What? Dammit!” John popped open a tin of Mentats, eating them as if they were made of sugar, not synthetic Mescalin. “So, you really don’t remember me, Nate?” His voice sounded detached, uncaring.

“What’s there to remember, besides your ugly mug?”

“No recollection of a John Hancock? No memory of the Legendary ‘Heck Dang’ MacCready? Nothing?”

“The names ring a bell, bu-” Bloodshot eyes widened. “I must have a fever! Or be going mad, or something! Because John Hancock has been pushing daisies for a long, long time.”

“Must of had a fever then, not now. I’m as alive as you are.”

“I saw you. I saw Heck Dang blow your brains out! You were dead before you hit the dust!” Nate slammed his drink down.

Hancock laughed. It was a cruel sound. “Well, doesn’t really matter if you believe me.” He pushed past Nate.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

The door swung open, and slammed shut behind him.

“Alright, Curie. Here’s my bet.” A skeletal hand laid chips onto the table.

A piercing crack came from outside. “Heck,” a muffled, whiny voice shouted. Immediately, ears still sore, Nate went towards the sound.

“Where do you think you’re going,” asked Nick.

“As someone certified in human anatomy, I must say Hancock is-” She hesitated, face fallen. “Well, he blow he brain out.” She added.

Nate’s hand wilted away from the doorknob. “Just as well. The guy must’ve been losing his mind. John Hancock is dead! Bastard’s syphilis –or whatever the hell was wrong with him– must’ve gotten to his brain.”

Nick lit a cigarette. Nate waved the smoke out of his face. “In my breathing air, Nick? Don’t you ever get tired of those damn things!”

Yellow eyes flickered up. “Yes. I’m on my smoke break, right now.”

“Je pantalons!” Cuirie looked offended.

Valentine only shrugged. “Come, Nate. Sit.”

“You still haven’t answered my questions. What’s the name of this town? Who are you people?”

“Things still haven’t clicked, have they, Nate?” Nick stood, approaching the man. “Don’t remember Far Harbor?”

“Listen, buddy. I’ve been a lot of places.”

“But you do remember Far Harbor? What about DiMA?” Nick glared. “Even after I risked my neck helping you find your son, you don’t remember?”

Understanding crossed the newcomer’s features. “Toaster?”

“Yes, that’s what you oh-so affectionately called me.”

“But-but,” the man stuttered.

“Found out I had a brother. Watched him die the same day, surrounded by an angry mob.”

“And then Allen turned the gun on you,” Nate said softly.

“Yes, and then Allen turned the gun on me,” Nick said in a condescending voice. “Couldn’t trust synths, they all figured. DiMA was a lying murderer. I looked like him, so I had to die too.”

“Toaster, I’m so sorry.”

“The name’s Nick Valentine!”

The clock interrupted the conversation.

_60 (Minute Man)_  
I'll rock 'em, roll 'em all night long  
I'm a 60 minute man.

The synth visibly relaxed. He put out his cigarette against the table.

“Hey, asshole. Tables don’t grow on trees,” said the barkeep.

From outside, a crowd could be heard. Anti-synth rhetoric being spewed. The murky windows grew orange, from firelight.

“Well, it’s been nice catching up, Nate.” Calmly, the synth moved towards the exit.

“Nick, wait!”

The door latch clicked shut.

Nate closed his eyes, wishing his life of gunfire had deafened him.

The expected gunfire crept around the door, and through cracks in the floorboards. It rattled the windows, and echoed through the room.

“Now are things making sense?”

“And which specter of the past are you? You some stiff’s wife or sister or somethin’?” The man mumbled. Exhausted.

“That is a very sexist attitude to carry, monsieur.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am.” He clenched his eyes shut, rubbing his face. “It’s been a long day.”

“As it has beenfor us all.”

“Really, though. Who are you? I’ve never hit a woman, let alone kill her.”

“I’m not, as you say, a specter of your past. I have my own past, my own life.”

“Go on, then. Tell me your story.”

“I was a doctor. Skilled with my hands, and gifted by God with an education on human anatomy – along with other sciences. There was never gunpowder on my fingers.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I assisted those who killed. Robbers, thieves, murderers, robber-thieves, murderin'-theievin'-good-for-nothin'-rootin'-tootin'-shootin'-fellas, you name it. For a profit, I would extract the lead from their wounds. I would stitch them up, make them well again. For every criminal I saved, another man or woman or child died.” She took a deep breath. “Guilt built up.”

Nate’s mouth was dry. “How did you die.”

“I had a gun in my office. I worked with dangerous, dangerous men. I couldn’t be too careful. One day, I took it and-”

Interrupting, Nate shouted, “Who those people killed, they were not your victims. And suicide should not be punishable by- by,” Nate was frantic. “It shouldn’t be punishable by whatever the hell all this is.” He gestured around the room.

She was silent for a moment, mouth a tight line, eyes sad. “That’s not the way God sees it.”

 

_There’ll be 15 minutes of kissin’_

_Then you’ll holler “Please, don’t stop.”_

_There’ll be 15 minutes of teasin’_

_15 minutes of pleasin’_

_and 15 minutes of blowing my top_

 

Helpless, Nate watched the woman approach her fate. From inside, he could see her pull a gun from her pocket. A small pistol.

A harsh pop.

Tears felt hot in his eyes, falling from thin, short lashes.

She blow she brain out.

He turned to the barkeep. “What the fuck is all this? Why?”

“Drunkie, I can’t believe you haven’t caught on yet.”

 

 _If your man ain't treatin' you right_  
Come on and take my hand  
When I let you go you'll cry,  
"Oh yes, he's a sixty minute man!"

 

Fear clutched Nate’s heart. “Would you fix that damn clock?”

The barkeep smiles, a lipless smile. All yellow teeth. “Time to go.”

“Go? Go where? What is this place?”

“This place? In short, it’s a waiting room. Some call it ‘Hell.’”

 

Nate found himself outside. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still black. Dusting himself off, he laughs. He was safe. The people, all angry and bitter fucks playing a cruel trick on him. Nate _did_ have many enemies.

Realizing there was nothing evil about that bar, he began his trek as far away as possible from the ugly, near ghost town.

As he walked, he came across the swinging body again. The poor bastard, unlucky enough to be caught by Death.

“Let’s see who you are, anyway.”

Nate tore the fabric from over the corpse’s face. Staring back at Nate, was his own eyes.

“Oh, God!” Nate screamed, running from the body, to the nearest building he saw.

The door, the only thing between him and the horror he’d witnessed. He looked around. His heart sank.

The room, dark, filled with cigarette smoke. Three people: a robot, a leper, and a doctor sat around a game of poker.

“Take a seat, Nate.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is another adaptation of a Night Gallery episode. And you thought that I could come up with something interesting on my own.


End file.
